


Coming Back

by StagnationRebel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Death, Gen, Hallucinations, Suicide Attempt, Undeaded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:57:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1395358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StagnationRebel/pseuds/StagnationRebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NOTE: This started out as a fanfic, but then it morphed it to fit the descriptions of my own characters, and I may or may not actually put it in my own Sherlock Holmes story. </p><p>Broken and weak, John attempts to join Sherlock and Mary in the afterlife, but is interupted by what could only be a hallucination of his long lost friend. Tormented by the image, John begins to wonder if he's gone insane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Back

            Losing Sherlock was the flame that lit the wick of the dynamite in John’s chest and losing Mary is what finally caused it to explode. The shrapnel of his heart left him filled with holes while other pieces simply lodged in his chest like bacterial infected shards of glass. Walking through daily life was a task he couldn’t perform anymore, a way he could no longer adapt to, even after adapting to so many things. War. Normal life. Sherlock. Married life. All of that had been easy compared to this.

            Life for everyone else went on like nothing had changed, and for everyone else, it hadn’t. The earth still turned; the sun still set in the evening and rose again in the morning; time still ticked on. But for John, the earth _was_ still, drowning in some eternal darkness. Time was the only thing that still kept ticking, counting down the days until John finally decided to join Sherlock and Mary.

            That ticking was coming to an end.

            For a while, John had though it would be the guilt or the alcohol that did him in. Then maybe he figured the loneliness, but in the end, it was going to be himself, succumbing to the pressure of the three.

            John sat at the end of his bed in his brother’s guest room, his service gun resting heavily in his hand. It was cold, familiar, and the only solid thing grounding him. His hands were shaky, as of late they always were, but he closed his eyes and tried his best to breathe. This was the one shot he would take in his life that very well could save his soul, so he didn’t want to miss and end up a vegetable stuck forever in a never ending nightmare.

            Slowly, John raised the barrel to his temple and rested his finger on the trigger, mentally playing over all of his life, not really needing another reason to remember why he was doing this, but reminding himself anyways. He flashed through childhood and school years, the war, and before he knew it, John was meeting Sherlock. Solving cases and running around London like mad men. Then Mary’s sweet smile and the baby bump. Oh to be a father, the thought brought him so much bliss.

            In all of that, there was one thing John remembered. It was that he was a fighting man, but as a fighting man, one had to pick and choose his battles. One could not win them all.

            With Sherlock painted on the back of one eyelid standing prouder than a king in his castle and Mary smiling sweeter than the Mona Lisa on the other, John’s hands steadied. They steadied like they had a mind of their own, as if they knew they were doing the right thing.

            A bright burst of orange exploded through the darkness of his eyelids, and for a moment, fear struck John. Had his brother come home early from a night of drinking? He prayed not in that slow moving moment because drunk or sober his brother coming home wouldn’t lead to anything any better then what was going to happen. But perhaps he was wrong; perhaps it was the angel of death coming to him to finally answer his prayers.

            “Put the gun down, John,” a voice boomed like a drum, echoing through the empty house. “Everything is going to be okay,” he added more slowly, in the same deep voice.

            There was a tightening in John’s chest as the infected glass of his heart dug itself deeper, spreading the dread and misery coursing through him like a cancer. He opened his eyes to see the image of the very man who began this all, the man who began playing with John’s heartstrings the way he played the damn violin.

            “Go away,” John pleaded, his hands beginning to tremble.

            “I can’t, John. Not when you need me,” Sherlock replied with his voice on the edge of steady and quivering. He stood tall, straight backed, dressed in a black suit. How fitting, he looked ready for a funeral.

            “Please,” John croaked.

            “No,” his voice firmed.

            Damn him! The image of Sherlock haunted him at his weakest moments, always trying to convince him to carry on and live another day. And every time it happened, John crumbled and listened. It wasn’t fair that his suffering couldn’t end.

            The floorboards creaked as Sherlock stepped closer and John shut his eyes again, trying to will the image away. He tried to will his hands still, to let death whisk him away in warm arms, so he could finally join the real Sherlock and Mary in the sweet comforts of the afterlife.

            A hand touched John’s knee and he could feel Sherlock kneeling before him. Sherlock’s arms, feeling a little stronger than they used to, wrapped around John, radiating warmth he knew couldn’t be real. Curls ticked John’s brow as Sherlock pressed the side of his head against John’s own, opposite the side of the barrel.

            “John, listen,” Sherlock’s voice whispered against John’s ear. “I know things haven’t been easy while I was away, especially now, and though my trials don’t compare to yours, these last couple of years haven’t been a vacation. I did what I needed to do and I did it in the shadows, alone. Foolishly, I realize now, so if this is what you need to do, it’s okay. You go ahead and do it, but I simply must refuse you trying to do it alone.”

            Real or not, John could not resist the temptation of answering. In a steely voice, John reminded him that their roles had once been reversed, that Sherlock had callously denied him the possibilities of getting any closer before jumping.

            Around him, Sherlock’s arms began to tremble as he said, “I know and I’m sorry. I am so sorry, John.”

            So was John. Even with his years of military experience, John had been completely useless trying to save the two people he loved most in the world. He had failed them both.

            “Please, I can’t do this with you here,” John begged, his hand shaking more violently than ever. Real or not, john couldn’t risk the precious head that rested against his, not again.

            “I’m not going anywhere,” he insisted, tensing as he braced himself.

            Voices in John’s head urged him to just pull the trigger while others cried for him not to. The arguing grew louder and louder, until finally, John couldn’t take it anymore. There was no right choice for him to make. He quickly flipped the switch of the safety on the gun and tossed it off to the side. It clanked hard and spun before falling silent with the rest of the room as John fully embraced Sherlock.

            “I hate you so much,” John whimpered into Sherlock’s neck, no longer the man he used to be, the man Sherlock once knew. The strong, military doctor was a rotting corpse, crumbling to the core.

            “I am perfectly okay with that so long as you’re alive,” Sherlock replied, his voice softer, his muscles more relaxed.

           

            That night, Sherlock’s image didn’t disappear. It stayed with him through the night as nightmares filled his mind. Tears damped his cheeks and his pillow and music filled his ears during the lighter parts of his attempted slumber. John could hear Sherlock humming the same tune he used to play when he would lull John to rest, and even under the circumstances, it brought John a little peace. 

            When the morning sun rose, John opened his eyes fully expecting to be alone. Instead, he rolled over to see Sherlock leaning in a corner, head bobbing as he tried not to nod off. John watched as Sherlock struggled to keep his eyes open and was almost tempted to laugh, for the first time in a long time. Back when they worked with Scottland Yard, Sherlock could spend days awake with ease, and now only after one night, he was nodding off. It was practically proof he wasn’t real, that he was tired because John was tired.

            “Why are you still here?” John demanded of the hallucination, snapping it to attention. “I’m not going to kill myself. At least not today, so feel free to leave.”

            “I’m here because you need me,” Sherlock replied, voice thick. “I’m here because you need me and I’m real, John. You need to accept that.”

            “Because so many of you didn’t say that before,” John grumbled under his breath, pulling the sheet over his head. “Tell me then, where is my brother. You’re noise would’ve annoyed him last night.”

            “He stumbled in fairly late last night,” Sherlock answered, shuffling around. “He passed out and this morning woke up late. In his rush, he brushed right passed me.”

            That sounded like his brother. With how often that actually happened, it was a surprise he even had a job anymore.

            Sighing heavily, John rolled out of bed and stretched. His decaying muscles and dusty bones cracked like a xylophone, and with a final crack of his neck, John began to strip down to his underwear. He was in need of a good, long, blazing shower to wash away the icker of last night, to rid himself of the alcohol haze he caused himself.

            “What the-­” Sherlock began, raising a hand to cover his view of John. “What are you doing?”

            “Showering,” John replied, feeling like a madman, talking to himself like this.

            “You couldn’t undress in there?” Sherlock inquired, pointing to the bathroom.

            “Why? No one’s here,” John cackled wildly fanning his arms out to showcase the room.

            Sherlock moved to pinch his nose, but he stopped mid-motion, noticing something. He approached John and lifted his arm to expose a tattoo that had not been there last Sherlock saw him. On his right side, just below his pectoral muscles, there was a violin and pipe crossing each other with the words ‘My mind rebels at stagnation’ scrawled in cursive and Sherlock’s full name beneath the quote.

            “I thought…” Sherlock hesitated for a moment, confused. “I thought you only tattooed things that were important to you. How-”

            “No shit,” John interrupted, pulling his arm away from Sherlock and stepping back. “When you were alive, you were my absolute best friend. You should know that.”

            John left Sherlock standing there, color drained from his face, and shut the bathroom door, slipping into the shower. The hot water burned into his skin like hot embers, steaming up the bathroom quickly and evaporating the groggy fog in his head. The remaining effects of last nights alcohol left him and his body felt a bit more limber.

            “John, are you alright?” Sherlock’s voice called through the drill of the water. “You’ve been awfully quiet in there.”

            “Obviously, I’m still in here,” John growled, “Why are you?”

            “Because, John, I’m your best friend,” Sherlock stated, with no small amount of pride in his voice.

            More than a little tempted, John wanted to hop out of the shower just to give Sherlock a good old whipping, but his brother had yelled at him enough times about broken chairs, smashed windows, and holes in the wall. His brother was sick of saying it, and John was sick of hearing it.

            John finished his shower with Sherlock checking in on him twice more and dressed in the bathroom, now feeling too weird to dress in his room with Sherlock’s image still hanging around.

            When he was all set and ready, John left his room and headed for the kitchen. His stomach rumbled, so he attempted to cook himself a meal- a bit of toast and some scrambled eggs- before heading to the living room to sit. He flipped on the television, finding the news and was about the change the channel when Lestrade’s name scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

            An idea slipped into John’s mind and he dug his phone from his pocket. He began to search through the names of those he’d lost touch with- Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, those at the yard- trying to find the name he was looking for. As he did, he scrolled across one name that wrapped a firm hand around his throat. Mary, sweet Mary. It took a moment for John to regain his grip, to do what he needed to do and he found the number he was looking for. He typed out a vague message and prayed that he would soon have an answer while behind him, Sherlock began to move around.

            John closed his eyes, feeling tense. He was beginning to wonder if he really wanted an answer.

            “Do you still think that I’m not here?” Sherlock’s voice inquired out of nowhere and John nodded, debating on whether or not he was okay talking to himself. “Just as I thought.”

            Sherlock’s footsteps led off to the back of the house, closer to John’s brother’s room. John turned up the television and changed the channel to some action movie. He needed the noise now to completely rid himself of Sherlock’s voice going off in the background. John didn’t want or need to know what he was saying, thinking they were his own underlying thoughts.

            With the gun shots and violence of the movie filing the house, John began to make coffee and soon Sherlock emerged from the hallway. His dark eyes were pensive, but full of resolve as he moved to sit in the living room. Almost as if he were back on Baker Street, Sherlock dropped himself in a chair and sat there, fingertips touching lightly as his eyes lost focus on the wall photos hanging across from him.

            After some time, there was a banging on the door, which John was prompt to answer, practically yanking the door open. Lestrade, a familiar face of an old friend, stood before him, tall, but slouched, his blonde hair sprinkled with bits of white now, the wrinkles a little more profound on his forehead. He was dressed in a grey suit, tie a little loose up at the top. His stele blue eyes glistening with a strange mix of emotion that John understood fairly well- a bit of joy with a dash of anger.

            Lestrade stepped in, pulling John into his arms, that same old fatherly air he always had about him as strong as ever.

            “Good to see you, John,” he breathed, and for a moment, they stayed like that. Embracing like a father who’d found his lost son, a son in desperate need of a father. But as quickly as it happened, it ended and Lestrade was off, storming into the living room. His voice rang loud and clear as he shouted.

            John quickly joined him to see the detective shouting at the chair Sherlock was supposedly sitting in.

            “Lestrade, what are you doing?” John asked, perfectly confused. He’d messaged Lestrade to come over and confirm his insanity, to have him committed, not to join him in madness.

            Red in the face, Lestrade turned to face John as he pointed to Sherlock, “That asshole right there is as real and alive as he’ll ever get,” he howled. “He called me, not seconds after you messaged me, explaining what was going on.”

            “So he really­-” John couldn’t breathe. His lungs tightened in his chest, feeling like they were shriveling up as John clutched his shirt collar. As Lestrade nodded and Sherlock said nothing, John’s knees gave out and he was on the ground.

            “Shit,” Lestrade said as he and Sherlock both went to John’s side.

            At their touch, John felt a full burst of air puff up his lungs until they were a balloon ready to burst. The shrapnel of his heart sliced their way out of his chest cavity and crawled back to their rightful positions as the wounds they left stitched themselves back together. John could feel his blood begin to pump again through his veins like fire, spreading a searing pain throughout his entire being as he struggled to hold himself up. Heat rose within him, reanimating him and eliminating the cold death that had settled along the living corpse he had been. His body began to shake as he came together again, panting, trying not to cry out during the sparks of pain as Lestrade took his arm, guiding him to his feet.

            Still wobbly, John didn’t let go of the detective. Bits of sweat dripped down his forehead as he looked up, looked to the one who started this all.

            “You bastard!” John cried, leaping from Lestrade’s grip and flying at Sherlock, finally letting the madman within loose. His fist shot forward, directly hitting Sherlock’s jaw.

            Lestrade made an attempt to pull John off of Sherlock, but there wasn’t much need after the third punch. At the sight of blood from Sherlock’s cut lip on John’s knuckles, John froze. It wasn’t plaster, glass, or wood this time. It was blood. Real blood from a real, living, breathing man.

            Sherlock was alive and well, here in his brother’s home. John too, was alive, or at least getting there.

            “Why?” John demanded, his voice low and hoarse. “How could-”

            Frustration boiled John’s brain too hot to finish the sentence.

            “At the time, I did what I thought was right. There was a lot more going on then I had originally thought,” Sherlock answered, the shame laced in his voice. “At the time, I knew you would be alright. You had Mary.”

            “And what about now?”

            “That’s why I’m back, well part of it anyways,” Sherlock said. “You had someone when you lost me, and now you need someone since you’ve lost her.”

            “Still could’ve said something,” Lestrade scolded, crossing his arms over his chest, stele eyes baring down on Sherlock the way they used to do, and for a moment, John laughed, feeling light.

            “You tell him, Papa,” John managed to say, crawling off of Sherlock and leaning back against the couch.

            There was only a brief silence before Lestrade and Sherlock joined John in boisterous laughter. The old nickname pulled them through a wave of fantastic memories and great cases, especially the one that brought them all together. All the blood, insults, and murders. For John, it had been a new beginning, a turning point in life that allowed him to discover new things in life; for Sherlock too, it was much the same, only he was discovering what it was like to truly let someone in; and for Lestrade, it was the most fantastic frustration he could’ve ever had the pleasure in dealing with.         


End file.
